Between Storms
by down-right-mystical
Summary: November 1st 1981. The day after the fatal night before. The Wizarding World mostly believe the war to finally be over. Voldemort is defeated, his followers will be caught, they think they are safe. One man knows otherwise.


A long time ago I promised someone, she knows who she is, that I'd write more Dumbledore fics, after she read my first one, Him. The outcome of that promise is long overdue, but here it is, at last, my second Dumbledore fic, written for Evie.

**Disclaimer:** Characters, settings and dialogue used in this story were created by JK Rowling. They are owned by JK Rowling and various publishers. I'm not making any money out of this, I'm simply borrowing them for entertainment purposes.

Many, many thanks to Mike for being a great beta and for getting involved enough to actually come up with the title of the fic when I was struggling to think of one!

Please R+R!

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**Between Storms**

He stood, gazing vacantly out of the window at the setting sun, watching it sink below the rolling mountains, throwing its last glimpses of cold, early November, light across the deserted school grounds, illuminating the castle's well-worn stone walls; a gentle orange glow creeping through closed windows into common rooms and classrooms. In a few hours, those same rooms would be deserted and still. As night drew in, the castle would begin to mirror the sombre, silent mood of this man, a man who had become so much a part of it over the many years he had lived and worked there.

For now, however, the castle was bustling with people, full of the chatter of celebrating students. He felt somewhat disconnected from it all, as though he was watching and listening through a bubble of bitter frosted glass. His world appeared far removed from the joyful mood of others. Alone in his office all was silent. Silent and cold. For although the evening sun was streaming softly through the window, he could not feel any of its warmth on his weathered face. Stood in shadow, he felt numb.

Normally, at times such as this, he would turn to his Pensieve. This time, however, things were different – there were no thoughts, no feelings, no emotions to consider or understand. He felt nothing but a mind-numbing coldness that filled his entire being, crawling into the corners of his soul and consuming him. He could not accept, believe or even contemplate what he nevertheless knew to be true.

He had felt the power surge the previous night when Tom Riddle's mortal body had been destroyed – his weakened spirit unleashed upon the world. He had known what must have happened, who must have died.

Now, as the sun slowly set on this most extraordinary of days, there could be no doubt.

Lily and James Potter were dead.

Betrayed. By their best friend.

The Ministry had been informed of course, and they, in due turn, had informed the rest of the Wizarding World. Up and down the country, witches and wizards had begun their celebrations, rejoicing the name of the baby boy who had saved them all; few sparing even a thought to mourn for him the loss of his parents – the last two to die at the hands of Lord Voldemort.

They thought it was over now; they thought that because Voldemort seemed to be gone it was over. For most of them, perhaps it was; without the threat of Voldemort hanging like a heavy, dark weight over their heads, they could begin to live again, live without the fear that they, or their loved ones, might be next. For others, however, it was far from over.

His thoughts turned to the small, orphaned baby boy - the 'saviour' of the Wizarding World - who was soon to be re-homed, and whose future remained unclear. At this, his face became stern and worried. He glanced apprehensively towards a sealed envelope that sat on his desk and the worry lines deepened. He was fully aware that the contents of that rather lengthy letter were the words that a child's life depended on. If they failed to convince, there was no telling what could happen. It was just another burden that rested on his shoulders, and he accepted it. He had already come to terms with the fact that the decisions about this boy's future rested with him, the next few years of which he hoped he had now sorted. Still, he knew this was a child who would have many enemies, a child whom he knew he would have to keep a constant eye on despite the protection this new home would provide.

Far below him, in the shadows of the school grounds, his keen eyes caught the movement of a larger than life, humanoid shape: Hagrid setting out on his mission.

Glancing at the time, he knew he too should soon leave. He gave one last, long look at the last rays of the sun silhouetting the mountains and, tucking the letter from his desk deeply into his long purple cloak, he quietly left his office - and the school - behind.

Many hours later, he was finally preparing to leave Harry Potter with his only remaining relatives - the only safe place left for a boy whom those celebrating had already began to call the Boy-Who-Lived. He laid Harry on the doorstep of number four, tucking the letter inside his blankets, and for a full minute he stood with Hagrid and Professor McGonagall, just watching Harry sleep.

He felt hopelessness rise within him. This final act - the symbolic closing of a chapter - finally confirmed to him that which he'd spent the last twenty-four hours trying to deny. Leaving Harry here, on the doorstep of Lily's magic hating sister, was the last, desperate act that proved everything true. He simply could not believe . . . Lily and James . . . He had failed them. He was failing them now. He knew leaving Harry here was something Lily had never wanted for her son, something she had tried to avoid until her dieing wish. In that moment, she had done the only thing she could think of to keep her son alive. But it had not included leaving him here.

"Well," he said finally, trying to get a grip on himself. "That's that. We have no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations." He said it without conviction; he knew it was the last thing any of them were likely to do.

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice. "I'll be takin' Sirius his bike back. G'night Professor McGonagall, Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Sirius. He barely disguised a jolt of anger at the mention of the name as Hagrid swung himself onto the bike and rose off into the night. Now there was something he still could not believe. He had considered it of course; with his family background, it had always been a nagging possibility that Sirius could betray James and Lily - but he had never truly dreamt it could come true. Their other friend, Peter, the one had followed them around at Hogwarts, attracted solely to their popularity and their power maybe . . . But not Sirius. Clearly, he had been wrong. Yet, for all the obviousness of it, it just did not ring true. It made no sense. That, however, was a completely different story - to be dealt with another time.

"I expect I shall see you soon, Professor McGonagall," he said, nodding to her, before walking back down the driveway.

He paused on the far corner of the street. His eyes moved to the tiny bundle of blankets on the doorstep of number four.

"Good luck, Harry," he murmured, then glanced one last time at his pocket watch. Half-past midnight – the Witching hour. Rather ironic in retrospect.

As he returned the lights to Privet Drive, he thought once more of the celebrations; of all those that would be partying for many hours to come, joyful because it was 'over'. He also thought of Sybil Trelawney's shocking prophecy. Now it was finally clear who _that_ boy was; he had been marked, just as she had said he would be:

_'And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have a power that the Dark Lord knows not . . . and either must die at the hands of the other for neither can live while the other survives. . .'_

He wondered when the rest of the Prophecy would come into effect. , He knew Riddle was not dead. He knew it wasn't over; he knew this was not the end. Far from it. As he turned on his heel, leaving Privet Drive as suddenly and silently as he had arrived, Albus Dumbledore knew with absolute certainty what this was:

The calm, before an even greater storm.

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I hope you enjoyed. If you did, please let me know. And if you didn't please let me know anyway (politely of course) and let me know what you think I need to improve.

I'm planning on writing more fics from Dumbledore's point of view in the future, and I'd like to know what sort of interest there would be. From all the people who've read my Dumbledore fics so far (my betas, friends, etc) it seems like a good idea, but I'm just wondering, I have several events from PS that I'd like to tell from Dumbledore's POV, but as for yet I' m unsure whether to show them seperately as one-shots or as a chaptered fic, so opinions on that would be welcomed!

Loz


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